


London View

by skyeward



Series: Forever [7]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyeward/pseuds/skyeward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: London, after defeating reapers in ME3. Miri & Jack are moving in together to some ratty apartment. Apartment is mostly empty, there is a giant window. While sitting on the floor looking out said window they eat dinner, some dry rations because everything’s still short. They talk, atmosphere is easy and calm. Plus points if there will be sex scene :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	London View

“Catch.”

 

Jack tosses the MRE pack in an easy arc and, as expected, Miranda catches it with barely a glance in her direction. Twelve months of peace and paperwork still haven't ruined her reflexes.

“You know,” she comments mildly as the tattooed woman settles beside her on the bare concrete floor, “That is a huge defensive weakness. “ Blue eyes are fixed on the enormous picture window that takes up nearly the entire opposite wall of their new apartment.

Jack nods, tearing open the foil on her dinner. “Yeah. But it’s kinda pretty, huh?”

And it is, really. Thirteen floors in the air is high enough to conceal some of the devastation, at least at night, while still allowing them to enjoy the winking of the city’s lights – more of them all the time as power is restored.

They’re somewhat on the outskirts of London, in one of the few high-rise apartment buildings that’s still structurally sound – it wasn’t complete when the Reapers hit. It still isn’t, but having been empty meant it didn’t take much damage in the attack. Now it’s occupied by the galaxy’s surviving VIPs, a category that both women are somewhat bemused to be part of even though their combined importance rates only this tiny, bare, oddly-shaped efficiency.

Still, it’s better than what millions of other survivors have. They’ve got electricity in their dingy little apartment, they’ve got clean clothes and food and supposedly running water won’t be too long in coming. It’s the lap of luxury in present-day London.

The former convict bumps her partner’s knee with her own, tossing a worried glance at the other woman.

“You okay, babe?”

Coming back down to Earth, Miranda returns the gentle tap and smiles apologetically.

“Yes,” she pauses to open her own dinner as well, “Just distracted. There’s so much to be done, and no matter how much I do it never seems like we’re really making progress. It’s been a year and I’ve accomplished nothing.”

“Nah,” Jack returns gently, tipping her head back to rest it against the wall. “Just look outside. Every day there’s more people under roofs, there’s more lights, there’s more hope.”

“I am looking,” Miranda replies quietly, leaning a bit to the side so she can rest her head on the other woman’s thin shoulder, “And I do see it. But that’s not me. That’s you and your kids, that’s the engineers and the medics and even the damn politicians. None of it is me.”

She starts to draw her knees up to her chest, but is stopped by a hand on her thigh. She looks up in surprise, and then Jack is straddling her lap, kneeling up and looking down. MRE pack abandoned – and empty, no doubt, since the woman eats like a starved varren – she cups the pale face in both hands. Her eyes are beautiful and focused, the rich whiskey brown boring into deep blue with almost painful intensity.

“Listen to me,” she says softly, and Miranda listens. How could she not? “You are vital to this whole reconstruction business. You are the reason we’re even still in this bombed-out shithole of a city. I could teach the kids anywhere, but you…baby, they need you, and they need you here. You’re a planner, a coordinator, a schedule-maker – without you telling everybody where to be and when, nothing’d ever get done.”

Pulling herself back from where she’s been drowning in earthy brown pools, the former operative nods slowly.

“I suppose you’re right, although I doubt that I am truly the foremost coordinator in the whole of London.”

Jack grins down at her, lowering her body until she’s sitting on Miranda’s lap and she can rest their foreheads together.

“Yeah you are. That stick up your ass is finally good for something, huh?”

Miranda laughs and shoves her, but Jack’s balance is good and she barely moves.

“Don’t like that one? Okay, how about…man, I can’t think of how to phrase it. Pretend I said something smart about how anal you are and how much you love taking it up the ass.”

This time Miranda doesn’t waste time with simple shoving. She folds her legs and tips forward, tumbling Jack to the floor and lying on top of her, their legs intertwining.

“You,” she says with a smirk, bracing her weight on one elbow as she runs a finger along the other woman’s bare, exposed throat, “Are losing your touch, Ms. Nought. Or should that be Mrs. Lawson? I’m the man in the relationship, right?”

It’s Jack’s turn to laugh and shove, and Miranda’s turn to not budge, to lower her head until their foreheads touch.

“I love you,” pale lips murmur softly as she blinks back the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, “I love you so much I can’t even think of words for it. Thank you for loving me, for propping me back up when I’m feeling sorry for myself.”

She starts to shift, aiming to press a kiss to the wide, full-lipped mouth beneath hers, but is stopped by gentle hands on her shoulders. Jack’s eyes are burning now, fierce and alight.

“Don’t ever thank me for that,” she breathes, then pauses. Her chest hitches as if in a sob, her voice cracking a little. “For loving you. Without you – without us – I’d have been dead a long time ago. So just don’t…don’t fucking _thank_ me, okay?”

“Okay,” Miranda whispers, gently pulling one hand away from her shoulder and settling it on her hip instead as she finally lowers her mouth to Jack’s.

“I love you,” she repeats between kisses that are growing steadily deeper. “I love you, I love you, I-“ Her words are cut off by a soft, surprised gasp when one tattooed hand slips between their bodies to cup her intimately, slender fingers stroking her through layers of fabric.

“I love you too,” Jack responds softly, gently rolling them over and settling her hips between plush thighs with a quiet sigh of pleasure. She rocks against the woman beneath her, pressing her trapped hand closer, and they both groan in anticipation.

Clothes are stripped away with the ease of long familiarity, tucked under Miranda’s body one piece at a time, a nest to protect her from the cold roughness of unpolished concrete.

Their lovemaking is slow and gentle and quiet, free of anything but their bodies and their love. It’s not their usual fare even now, but somehow this night seems to call for it. Each touch, each caress and kiss and slide of skin on skin calls forth the memory of another night exactly one year ago, once bitter but taking on more sweetness with each passing moment.

Just as the last of their cries are echoing through the still apartment, the sky outside explodes with blue fire. Bodies tense automatically at the sudden noise, lifetimes of combat leaving room for nothing less. Another explosion goes off, a white starburst filling the window, and then a third, green this time.

They relax, Jack pillowing her head on Miranda’s chest as they watch the fireworks that someone must have scavenged from the wreckage of the world, exploding right on level with the window. They’re many-coloured, white and blue and green…but no pink, no red. Red fire will never light the sky again, if the survivors have anything to say about it.

“Midnight already?”

“Looks that way. Happy Unity Day. I love you.”

 “You already said that.”

“It bears repeating.”

 


End file.
